


la petite mort

by ClassyFangirl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Descriptions of murder, Masturbation, Other, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassyFangirl/pseuds/ClassyFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal allows himself to enjoy his latest piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	la petite mort

He’s half-hard the moment the life fades from Joe Buford’s eyes, but Hannibal knows when to put business before pleasure, so he starts by packing the man’s organs into ice. He takes the liver- surprisingly, Buford was not much of a drinker -and considers taking the heart, but after some closer inspection, he realizes it’s not going to be of much use to him.

Hannibal smiles at his handiwork and idly palms his cock through his pants. He won’t deny it, he is an older man, and sometimes it takes quite a bit to get him fully aroused. But Joe Buford was a particularly rude and useless plumber, and he’s incredibly pleased to be rid of him.

Hannibal strokes himself slowly, taking the time to caress all of him. There is nothing particularly attractive about the body at his feet- Hannibal feels nothing like that for the dear dead Buford -but it was, in his humble opinion, a fine kill. No, Hannibal is not interested in the body of Joe Buford.

His cock stirs at the splash of blood and how it drips, in scarlet rivulets _(he closes his eyes and smirks at the word choice, sighing just a bit as he grows harder)_ down the skin. He smiles, all teeth, at the metallic tang in his nose, already stuck in his throat. He hardens at death, not because gore alone excites him, but because he _made_ this. He has created. He is an artist.

Hannibal allows himself a quiet, pleased hum as he cants his hips into his hand. He wonders if he could bring himself to orgasm just by rubbing himself through his pants. No, unfortunately, he is not so young these days. Hannibal slips his hand into his boxer briefs- an action that might look crude on another man, but with his grace, it looks as elegant as anything else he does.

He gently spreads the precome over the length of his cock, making his long, steady strokes slicker. Yes, he is older, and things do tend to take longer, but he is more than willing to accept the prolonged experience. Hannibal lets a small huff of breath escape his lips as he strokes, watching Joe Buford’s blood form puddles on the floor.

He begins to move harder, faster- not by much, but enough that he can feel himself teetering closer to the edge. It delights him, this treading of the line, like a tightrope walker, or a man with the toes of his shoes peeking over a cliff.

He grants himself a vain thought in his native tongue- _Aš esu didžiausias žudikas pasaulyje kada nors matė_ -and he comes, warm and sticky and incredibly unclean, all in his underwear. It is foul, true, and uncomfortable, but he certainly cannot contaminate the crime scene, and sometimes he simply cannot wait until he returns to the haven of his own bedroom.

And maybe, he thinks, wiping his hand with his handkerchief, perhaps by the time he makes it home, he will be ready to do it again.


End file.
